


second star to the right

by 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔢 (GuiltyAdonis)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, also featuring a brief appearance by commander 'minding his own business' zavala, everything is self-indulgent and nothing hurts, i hesitated to use the slash rather than the ampersand for this but it IS meant to be shippy so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyAdonis/pseuds/%F0%9D%94%AD%F0%9D%94%A2%F0%9D%94%AF%F0%9D%94%B0%F0%9D%94%A2%F0%9D%94%AD%F0%9D%94%A5%F0%9D%94%AC%F0%9D%94%AB%F0%9D%94%A2
Summary: in which a Guardian arrives at the Tower and learns the value of first impressions; or, in which Hunters are Hunters no matter the Light Level.





	second star to the right

**Author's Note:**

> Cockpit lights blink softly as the ancient ship scuds across the surface of the tundra. Overhead, curtains of multicolored light hang in the sky, veiling the stars; beneath them, a blackness so intense that even the aurora can't push it back. And here, in the humming hard-plastic sanctuary of a dusty, decrepit jumpship, the cricket-chirp of beeping machinery and nebula of starry LEDs mimic the midnight outside.

In the captain's chair, the nameless someone pulls her knees up to her chest and stares at her warped reflection on the inside of the cockpit window. The face that stares back is a stranger's: angular, dark-eyed, a halo of messy red hair. She knows, conceptually, that it's hers; it's who the ‘her’ is that's the problem. Her Ghost, as nameless as she is, had tried to explain. What she is, what it all means.

She supposes it doesn't matter. Even if she could reclaim or recall a single scrap of who she used to be, any of the context in which she used to be it is now long lost.

Eventually, the warm ticking of the cockpit and the endless blur of the aurora overhead begin to lull her, and she lapses into a hazy doze. When she wakes again, the Siberian tundra is gone, replaced by a tawny, rolling valley. A glare of gold catches her eye and pulls it to the horizon, where all the breath leaves her in a rush: dead ahead, a spine of mountains stretches dizzyingly towards the sky, the rising sun streaming in golden banners from their snowy flanks.

She leans forward, open-mouthed, and something slips from her shoulders: a heavy cloak of scratchy crimson cloth, trimmed in ratty fur, last worn by the angry alien whose ship she's currently flying. Her Ghost must have covered her with it while she was sleeping. The gesture leaves her oddly touched.

"Just in time," he says, over her shoulder. Though he has no way of showing it, she can hear the smile in his voice, the mechanical patina of anticipation. "We're almost home."

"Home?" The concept is foreign to her. Whatever home she had before is lost in a sea of emptiness along with the rest of the self she once was.

"The Last City. The only place left under the Traveler's protection."

The Traveler is something she does remember—at least, the name and concept are ones she knows she'd once been familiar with—but she's still not prepared for the sight of It as the little jumpship skims over the crest of the Andes and comes at last into view of the Last City. From here, It fills the whole horizon, dwarfing mountains and city alike, so vast that clouds gather in Its orbit. It's good that her Ghost seems to know what he's doing, because she can do little more than stare while he pilots them down towards the city's perimeter wall.

"They built this Tower for the Guardians at the end of the Dark Age," he says. "We've lived here ever since. The Vanguard are the ones in charge, although they're really more advisors than leaders. You're probably a Hunter, but Cayde-6 will know for sure."

"Cayde... Six?" It's not like she's got a lot of context, but she's fairly certain that's not a standard name.

Her Ghost blinks at her, radiating uncertainty. "Huh. I guess you really must have been dead a while. He's an Exo—an android. He's, uh..." He flicks his shell, now sounding somewhat sheepish. "He's got a sense of humor."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not... necessarily. You'll see when you meet him. Come on, I'll take you there now."

She kicks away the curl of nervousness that threatens to rise and nods firmly. "Sounds good."

Her Ghost twirls his shell around himself and vanishes; a second later, the pins-and-needles feeling of the transmat crawls across her body and whisks her away as well.

It's all she can do not to gape like a fish as her Ghost leads her across the plaza. The air is cold enough to bite, carrying with it the bright taste of snow, and she pulls the Captain's cloak more tightly around herself. Even at this early hour, there must be at least two dozen people—Guardians, all of them—milling between the kiosks, clustered around digital bounty boards, or arguing loudly with a blue-skinned man in saffron-yellow robes who appears to be running some sort of market stall.

"He's blue," she says, observantly, and her Ghost sighs and explains what an Awoken is.

For this and similar reasons, it takes them nearly fifteen minutes just to cross the thirty-foot plaza and duck into the narrow footpass beyond. The passage lets out into a wide, shallow room, dominated by a central table scattered with maps and datapads. The three people gathered around it emanate bright power so intense that even she, inexperienced as she is, can feel it pressing against her Light. The imposing man with luminous skin and bulky armor shines stern and steadfast as an anvil; the beautiful woman in the violet robes coils with the dark splendor of an event horizon, radiant and all-consuming; the blue-plated android in the tattered old cape has a jangling, laughing Light that butts impatiently against the walls as he gesticulates his point.

The woman is the first to notice her. She lifts her gaze from the long table and sizes her up, lips curving just slightly into a smile. "I think this is one of yours, Cayde."

The robot—_Exo_, Ghost had said—turns and fixes her with a long, bright stare. "Yeah, think you might be right. Nice cape, kid."

She shifts from foot to foot, suddenly self-conscious. "Thanks."

"So," he says, "you got a name?" She shakes her head. "Where'd you wake up, then?"

"An old cosmodrome," she says. Then, realizing that's not really all that specific, adds, "Sakha Republic." The name is ancient, rising to her lips from some unknown source deep inside her.

"Russia, huh? Haven't had one of those in a while. Well, let's get you settled, yeah?"

"Yes?" she says. She isn't sure how the Exo smirks without any lips to speak of, but he manages it.

"Was that a question?" When she shrugs, he laughs. "C'mon, I don't bite! Not like these guys. I'm the cool Vanguard."

"Keep telling yourself that, Cayde," says the woman without looking up. He shoots her a glare—his expressions are clunky and harder to read, but she's pretty sure it's good-natured—and then keeps on talking.

"So, baby Hunter, huh?"

She can only offer another shrug. Her Ghost peeks out from behind her shoulder to say, "I think so. She's pretty good with a knife, got one off a Dreg on our way out."

"That so?" Cayde-6 hums thoughtfully. "Hey kid, think fast." His hand blurs, quicker than she can see. On instinct alone she snaps her own up to catch what he threw: a wicked, lightweight dagger, its point intercepted barely an inch from her eye. "Yep," he says. "Hunter."

"Cayde," says the woman, warningly, "we don't kill newcomers, remember?"

"I wasn't gonna kill her! She caught it!"

"And if she hadn't?"

"Her Ghost's _right there_!"

The new Guardian spins the knife between her thumb and forefinger, tosses it into the air, and snags it by the grip. She should be alarmed by how close it came to skewering her, but all she feels is satisfaction.

"So..." she says, eyeing the two Vanguards with the beginnings of a smile, "finders keepers?"

Cayde's eyes widen, and then narrow as he grins. "Hah. _Definitely_ a Hunter. You satisfied, ’Kora?"

The woman ducks her head, but not before the Guardian catches the glimmer of amusement in her summer-green eyes. "I cede the point. Please don't attempt to murder any more of our new recruits."

"Depends on how much backtalk they give me."

"Cayde," says the third Vanguard, the stern luminous one, glancing up from his datapad. Cayde-6 coughs, looking chastised. The Guardian and her Ghost exchange surreptitious glances.

"Right. Vanguard business," Cayde says, and starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Stylish cape, check. Charming mentor, check. Faithful companion, check." Her Ghost puffs his shell out with obvious pride. "Gun?" She shows him the Khvostov. He doesn't have a nose to wrinkle, but he manages the demeanor well enough. "’Kay, so your next stop's the gunsmith. Sure I've got those requisitions somewhere...."

"Under the Mumbai Push printouts," says a voice at his shoulder, and the Guardian cranes curiously to see another Ghost, her iridescent shell patterned in a beautiful mandala of yellow, orange, and gold.

"Yep, yes, thank you," says Cayde, and his Ghost bumps affectionately against the side of his hood. He shuffles a bit and comes up with a translucent square of embossed blue-white matter, which he hands to the Guardian. "Take this to Banshee, ’round the corner to the left. He'll set you up with something that actually, y'know, works. Credit to you, though, getting past the Fallen with that mess."

"She killed a Captain with it," her Ghost says proudly.

Cayde's brow plating whirrs upwards. "Got your partner singin’ your story already? Yeah, you two'll fit in just fine." He grins, a neon curve in the hall's low light. "Go on, get moving. And you hang onto that knife, kid, Cayde-6 doesn't usually do freebies."

He flaps a hand in clear dismissal and the Guardian goes on and gets moving, but as she reaches the stairs, he calls her back. She turns, and the Exo winks at her, a bright flare of blue. "Knock ’em dead out there, Hunter."

**Author's Note:**

> this came from the first prompt ("first meeting," who could _ever_ have guessed) of a thirty-day challenge, but who knows what'll happen with the other 29. promises will only doom potential content in the cradle, but the angst shadowkeep has been serving may need a sizable portion of shameless self-indulgence to counterbalance it.


End file.
